Into the Blue
by Phoenixflame04
Summary: Selena never made it to Carvahal after fleeing Uru Baen with her five-year-old son. Instead she gave birth to a daughter in a village on the shores of the Ninor, where they were found only a couple of weeks later by the king's men. Her children ended up raised in Galbatorix's court after her demise. Inheritance Cycle AU
1. Chapter 1

A/N _Into the Blue_ is basically a complete AU rewrite of the _Inheritance Cycle_ starting from before the happenings of _Eragon_. In this universe Selena never made it up north to Carvahal and her children were raised at Galbatorix's court after her demise. The character of Eragon has been replaced by Eryana, as instead of having two sons, Selena had a son and a daughter. Eryana has just turned ten by the time of the events in this story and Murtagh is nearing his sixteenth birthday.

This story is being written for the Authors personal enjoyment and she may, or may not come back to edit the drafts of posted chapters. All recognizable characters and places belong to Christopher Paolini.

**Chapter 1 – Children of the Forsworn**

It was a warm spring day with clear skies. The glaring sun drew sweat on his skin and he could feel the blade grow slick and heavy in his hand. He blinked at his opponent, clearing the dust from his eyes. They had been at this for an hour already, yet neither was ready to give in. With a grunt Murtagh charged yet again, slamming his blade rather recklessly at the old bladesmaster. Moments later he found himself flat on his back on the gravely ground.

"Never know when to give up, do you Murtagh?" Tornac chuckled swinging his sword into its scabbard, walking towards his young charge. They never used dulled training blades these days, not since Murtagh had grown good enough with his forms to not cut himself up. The old master claimed it made for reckless battle without honour; each blow should carry its real weight. "Still, you are getting better, just got to watch that temper of yours. Anger makes one reckless and recklessness can cost a man his life." His voice carried pride for his charge yet was stern enough to get the message across. Bending over, he offered to pull the boy up. "I think we should wrap things up for the day. You look a mess and the King will have my head if he finds you missing some fingers at dinner."

Swordmaster Tornac was a man who appeared to be somewhere in his late fifties, Murtagh had never asked the man his real age, judging by his silvery hair and the many deep wrinkles that littered his sun-tanned complexion. Despite his occupation he was a man who enjoyed the peaceful morning air with a cup of herbal tea and his personal hobby of woodcarving. Whilst often putting up a brave front, Murtagh suspected that the man was less than whole on the inside, having lost his son to one of Galbatorix's many conquests and his wife to the complications of the birth of their stillborn daughter. Although somewhat rough around the edges and with an undercurrent of sternness, the man had a gentle and benevolent nature. Regardless, Murtagh looked up to the man like a father-figure.

Murtagh huffed in aspersion, taking the offered hand with apparent reluctance. "As if the old crack pot would take the time of day to really acknowledge my presence, not that I want him to. Too wrapped up in his past grandeur and whatever else that crazy mind of his whips up to take notice." The fifteen-year-old muttered patting down his dusty tunic and trousers, his mood darkening and quickly turning sour. "And when he does look at me, he doesn't even see me, not really. Only the old bastard's shadow. And don't even let me get started on Eryana. Honestly, can't remember a time he has even spoken to her." He bent over to pick up his blade, sheathing it with unnecessary force.

"Speaking of your sister, where is the little menace? Not wreaking havoc and demoralizing the men at the archery range I hope?" Tornac inquired, trying to lighten the boy up, a somewhat forced smile lining his callused features. The King's relationship with Morzan's offspring had always been a rather sore subject. "And please, do try to show our liege some proper respect will you? We both know how sensitive he can be about his titles." He chided playfully with a knowing grin.

Murtagh gave a small smile before replying, "Knowing her she has ditched her tutor, that would be the Lady Theresa for today, somewhere around lunch." Murtagh scratched his chin as if in deep thought. "As of right now, she could probably be found holed up somewhere in the library or making herself a bother in the Physician's chambers…. barring, of course, she isn't as you say 'wreaking havoc' somewhere else…" Morzan's eldest trailed off before shrugging "I should probably go find her before she makes the last of Lady Theresa's hairs go white, not that it could make the nasty old bat look uglier than she currently is."

Tornac let out a wolf-like bout of laughter. "That girl never ceases to amaze me with her peculiarities. I pity the poor soul that has to oversee her sewing lessons. Little Eryana is too curious and knows too much to be ever considered appropriate for a woman."

"You don't have to tell me. As far as half of the palace is concerned, Mother had two sons; not a son and a daughter."

Tornac ruffled the teen's messy locks in a fatherly way as they walked towards the armoury. Murtagh scrunched his face up in apparent annoyance yet it didn't quite reach his eyes. The old swordsman had taken the two siblings under his protective wing years ago when their mother had passed away, not long after their father was slain, apparently, by agents of the Varden. Not that Murtagh had ever been particularly interested in Morzan's demise; news of the old Bastard's death had not lingered long in the household and no one had particularly mourned him for the cruel and violent man he was. His mother's death on the other hand had hit the boy hard. Eryana didn't remember the circumstances surrounding their mother's death. Murtagh doubted his baby sister could even recall their mother's voice or face; she was just a couple of weeks old back then.

_The winter winds blew cold across the barren plains and snow crunched beneath his bare feet; he had lost his shoes somewhere in the night, when they had reached the muddy banks of the Ninor. At first the cold had stung relentlessly but had by now receded to a dull thrum. He pulled at his cloak, the hood did little to cover his blue lips and frostbitten cheeks from the wind. Exhaustion weighted down his lithe form as he followed his mother's wavering footsteps in the twilight._

The soothing smell of boiled leather and iron reached his nose as they entered the darkened armoury. Murtagh proceeded to place his blade on the rack under one of the high-set windows. Tornac had promised him a blade forged by the best smith the man knew for his sixteenth nameday, which was only a couple of months away. Until then, Murtagh would stick to borrowing swords from the palace armoury when needed. He gazed longingly at the freshly polished two-handed sword set to hand on the wall, its steel reflecting dusty rays of light.

"I think we should be making the trip up to Derwit a couple of weeks early. The village smith promised my order ready by then and he will no doubt be busy when they start turning and sowing the fields." Tornac mentioned taking a seat on a stool in the far corner, rummaging around his many pockets for a whetstone and a polishing cloth. The man was meticulous with the maintenance of his equipment.

"Derwit? You aren't using the services of the palace smithy?" '_Of course not, the pest that lives out of Galbatorix's purse isn't worth even half his title. Overcharging his for his bulky swords and daggers… According to Tornac Master Meswin swapped the last crumbles of his honour for gold years ago.'_

"Whilst His Majesty seems to trust Master Meswin to outfit his personal army, I would rather this matter be handled with more practiced and skilled hands…. especially seeing as I am paying for it out of my own pocket." Tornac muttered, running the whetstone across the edge of his blade with practiced ease. "If you're willing we'll be making the journey in a fortnight. And don't worry about your sister; I already promised her she will be accompanying us. It will do her good to get out of the castle every once in a while." The man smirked seeing the shocked look on Murtagh's face.

"You're taking full responsibility if we end up running halfway across Alagaesia after her.", Murtagh wailed.

"Not to worry. She promised she would be on her best behaviour, especially after I promised a certain someone would be taking her to see the local market…", Tornac amended with a conspiring grin.

"Traitor!"

"Now, now, Murtagh. It's only for five days, two of which will be spent traveling." Tornac said rubbing steadily with the polishing cloth, not in the least bothered by Murtagh's apparent dramatics. "Now, I think you should be off to find your little devil of a sister and get yourselves cleaned up for dinner. Unlike the youth of today, the older generation seems to value punctuality. And drop by for lunch tomorrow after your lessons if you can, and bring Eryana along as well. She always manages to somehow brighten up this old man's days."

He found her in the library, having no doubt snuck in with the silent encouragement of the young librarian, who managed the king's royal collections. Grenn was his name, if Murtagh recalled correctly. He was a young man in his early twenties with mousy-blond hair, blue eyes and a headful of boundless curiosity and an unrivalled love for literature. Needless to say, the man had become his sister's confidant and partner in crime ever since she had first gotten lost in the musty chambers. Many of the dusty tomes lining the shelves had been there from before the city was conquered by the rider king, other's had been salvaged from the smouldering ruins of Doru Araeba at Galbatorix's bequest. The man may have built his empire on the ruins of the old order but he wasn't one to forgo knowledge, the royal library being a testament to that.

Eryana was currently perched rather precariously on a window-sill, immersed in a book twice the thickness of her arm. Light filtered through the beautiful stained-glass window, encompassing her in a soft halo. Her left hand fingered her shoulder-length locks softly, habit she had developed whenever deep in thought.

Once during dinner Galbatorix had offhandedly mentioned how she seemed to take more after their mother whilst Murtagh was the spitting image of their father. Somewhat reluctantly, Murtagh found himself agreeing with the man. Whilst Murtagh was little rugged with wide-set shoulders and long limbs, Eryana's features had a softness that made her look somewhat fragile, excluding her face that is. She had the same angular jaw and high cheekbones as her brother along with the brown hair and eyes, even if hers were a shade lighter or so.

_Soft, loving brown eyes gazed up at him as warmth began to fade from the hand within his tight grasp. Her cheeks were red with fever, eyes wet with unshed tears. He leaned into her slight touch as she caressed his face, mouthing soft words to him. 'Only women and weak men cry', his father had uttered more than once. Yet now, his eyes stung and he could taste salt on his dry lips. _

"Shouldn't you be with the Lady Theresa?" Murtagh asked, raising his voice enough to break the ten-year-old girl's concentration. "She seemed rather exhausted when we met in the corridor just now, asked me to hunt down a skiving rascal. Any idea who she could be talking about?" Brown eyes shot up at him in alarm and the girl would have come tumbling down from her perch with a cry of shock, had Murtagh not been there to catch her.

"'Tagh! Don't scare me like that!" his sister reprimanded whilst steadying herself. "For a moment I thought you were the old hag from hell itself!"

"Hiding from her again? No wonder they have to switch with the Lady Margaret every couple of days just to keep sane."

Eryana rolled her eyes, something she had picked up from her brother not so long ago. "Hey! It's not my fault she has been hounding me all day for another row of cross-stitches. Honestly, couldn't handle a quill for days after her last lesson."

"And it's not her fault, or mine for that matter, that you are an absolute slob when it comes to sewing… apparently so much that it's hazardous to your health."

"I take offence to that! Being able to do a line of straight stitches is enough for me, thank you very much. It's not my fault if we cannot reach a consensus on the matter." Eryana stammered, her face becoming flustered in embarrassment and frustration. "I, for one am not willing to go through self-mutilation for her sole enjoyment."

"Ooh... big words. Have you by any chance seen the fifth volume of the encyclopaedia? I think a certain someone must have swallowed it." Murtagh proclaimed dramatically before sobering up. "Tornac send me. Said I should get you ready for dinner. With the King, remember?"

"Can't we just eat at your room? Please, 'Tagh? The food never tastes as good and well, I can't talk to you… not really." She pleaded, her voice turning rather whiny. "And seriously, he creeps me out. With how he stares at you all the time with those beady eyes."

"No, we can't. And yes he does creep me out as well." Murtagh admitted. The King had an ominous presence that left you feeling like you were walking on eggshells; the man was like a hungry wolf ready to jump at your throat at a moment's notice. "Besides, Master Tornac asked us both to partake lunch with him on the morrow." He was glad to see her eyes lighten up at that. Peering at the book in her hands he inquired: "What were you reading?"

Eryana smiled fondly at the thick book, balancing it in her hands before opening it, letting Murtagh see the many colourful maps and illustration littering the pages, although the ink had somewhat faded over time. "It's an atlas. By Rider Lúren" she explained eagerly. "Did you know that Utgard is almost as tall as the lowest peaks of the Beors; it's around twenty thousand feet tall… well at least according to Rider-Elder Lúren, the cartographer. He's the one who drew the map hanging in the throne room, you know, the big one with all the names written in elvish script. He and his dragon Ariadne Swiftwing are said to have mapped the entire kingdom from the air."

Murtagh paused upon a picture depicting what was, according to the accompanying fine script, Lake Isenstar with the towering fir trees of Du Weldenvarden blooming in the distance. "Now that's a place I would like to visit someday, maybe stay for a while." he muttered softly, earning a knowing smile from his little sister. Neither of them had seen much of the world outside the castle walls._ 'And those wings,' _he thought caressing the inkwork in the shape of a flying dragon and its rider. _'I want them too'_.

"And look at _this_!" Eryana exclaimed in a hushed tone, flipping to near the beginning "It's so beautiful." She sighted in awe. The claw-shaped island of Vroengard as it had been before the Fall and the horrors brought about by Galbatorix and his Forsworn, lush with greenery and fauna. The tall spires of Doru Araeba, the seat of power for the riders of old, could be seen intact against the horizon with rider astride dragons flocking around them diving in and out of the cloud cover. "I want to see it someday… climb up to the tallest tower and imagine I am flying. Feel the wind and smell the sea." Murtagh didn't have the heart to tell her the truth, that what once was was now just rubble and barren, scorched land.

"Come on. We had better get washed up and dressed for dinner." He said, closing the book before placing it on a nearby table. "It'll be here tomorrow still, after your lessons." He took her hand, gently guiding her from the room. They bade goodbye to Grenn, who was lighting the candles, on their way out. The day was quickly growing short.

That night Murtagh dreamed of snow ridden fields, cold winds and their mother's warmth.

_Promise me. Promise me, Murtagh_


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: **Thanks to all those who reviewed, feedback is always appreciated and a good motivation to keep on writing; you reviews truly made my day. Sorry for the long wait, but I was away on holiday and did not have wifi or a computer for that matter. But now school is up and running again so I'll probably have time to write during the weekends; not promising anything, though.

This chapter is supposed to act as a sort of transition chapter, with a bit of foreshadowing and backstory thrown into the mix. The action truly starts in the next chapter when we get the wheels of fate turning.

**Chapter 2 – On the Road to Derwit**

The morning dawned clear; the air hung bitter cold as they reached the steps leading down into the courtyard. Murtagh tightened the quite thin yet warm cloak around his shoulders. A bag made of tough leather hung over his left shoulder, containing nought but a blanket, a change of clothing, and bowl and a spoon, both wooden. Eryana hopped down the steps in front of him excitedly, having ditched the dress for a simple tunic and leggings, her shoulder length brown lock bouncing upon her shoulders. They had been up since before the crack of dawn, before the servants, so it had been her big brother who had been drafted to do battle with her unruly bedhead. Tornac wished for them to be well on their way by high noon.

The old swordmaster was already waiting for them, clutching the reins of a gelding and a mare, Beren and Kaith. His bags had already been latched onto the saddle of the latter, the white mare stomping the muddied ground appearing somewhat restless. Eryana squealed in glee, hurrying up to Beren, whilst digging around her pockets for a lump of sugar. The sweet treat had no doubt been stolen from the kitchens the day before. The cream-coloured, elderly horse accepted the threat rather eagerly, licking her fingers and nosing around the hem of her tunic for more; an action, which earned a giggle from the girl.

"Morning, my little lady." Tornac spoke, capturing the young girl in a loving bear-hug. "How fair her highness on this fine morn?" He inquired playfully, relieving her of her little bag. "My, this is heavy!" He exclaimed, apparently struggling with the weight. "You didn't blackmail your dear brother into smuggling half the library with you, did you?" He shot a falsely reprimanding look at his older charge.

"Not for the lack of trying, thought" replied Murtagh at his sister's expense.

"Hey! Its only _one _bookand we'll be gone for _five_ days…. I need something to keep myself sane around you two." Eryana muttered in embarrassment, her face flustered.

Murtagh was already mounted on Beren, after having checked the saddle straps and adjusted the stirrups. "Up you get, my lady." Tornac grabbed Eryana's lithe form, heaving her onto the saddle to sit in front of her brother. Murtagh steadied her with an assuring hand at her waist, before setting Beren into a steady trot. They soon excited the courtyard, heading for the northern gate with Tornac not far behind.

The streets of Uru'baen were fairly quiet at such an early hour, with only a few beggars lining the alleyways. They passed by a group of children around Eryana's age heading for the well and had to stop to give way to an apple cart heading for the mid-level market. The capital of the Empire was built around the palace in three tiers, or levels as they were more commonly called. The levels were separated from each other by gated walls and the gates would remain closed from an hour after dusk till an hour before dawn. It made the city easy to defend, should the enemy succeed in invading one level. The houses on the upper level were higher than the one-floor shacks in the lower level, where most of the populace, mainly peasants, lived. The middle level was home to the many shopkeepers, merchants and craftsmen of the city and also housed the largest markets. On the upper level lived the wealthy, mainly city officials and those high in command in the army as well as nobles.

It seemed strange that despite having called the city their home for most, if not all, of their lives, they both still felt like strangers riding down the streets. Most of their lives had been spent inside the innermost walls that surrounded the royal palace and neither of them truly had friends their age. Murtagh caught Eryana casting a wistful glance at a group of young boys playing with what appeared to be marbles at the mouth of an alleyway as they passed through the middle level.

"_Elbow up. Straighten your arm, keep it steady" Murtagh instructed his sister, steadying her pose with his hands on her shoulders. "Relax your shoulders…. that's right. Now, draw the string back all the way to your cheek and don't let go" It had been earlier that morning that Eryana had talked him into teaching her the basics of archery. At first, Murtagh had refused when he had been asked the week prior, saying that the archery range was no place for little girls. However, the mater had not been dropped and now, after much pleading and a few subtle attempts at bribery, here he was teaching little Eryana to shoot her first arrow._

_Eryana bit her lip, her lithe, small arms quivering from the strain of keeping the bow drawn, Murtagh noticed this. They had had a little difficulty scouring the armoury for a bow her size; perhaps, if he showed any promise, Murtagh would inquire Tornac to have one made especially for her. "Now control your breathing, slow it down. Try to hear your heartbeat, ok? Take aim, it helps if you close one of your eyes." Eryana gave an almost unnoticeable nod. "And, when you're ready, release." These was a twang as the arrow was let go and Eryana stumbled back in surprise as well as from the unexpected power of the recoil. The arrow sailed off course and Murtagh watched with faint amusement as it sailed over the wall quite a good distance away._

"_Well at least it flew a decent distance." He chuckled as Eryana flushed scarlet in embarrassment. Truly it wasn't that bad of a first shot, and her posture had been quite good. "Come on, we'll have to retrieve it. Let's just hope you didn't kill anyone." He remarked jokingly. It was early morning and most of the city had yet to wake. Murtagh doubted the shot had gone very far past the wall._

_They waited a while in order to sneak through the gates unnoticed, else word of their venture would no doubt reach Galbatorix within the hour; neither of the siblings wished to be reprimanded for sneaking about. Murtagh ushered them down the main street, keeping an eye out for guards or soldier lingering around while Eryana gazed around them curiously in awe._

_Thought it was still early, barely past dawn, there was some activity and bustle on the streets. The street they were on was known for its colourful markets, selling goods from all the four corners of Alagaesia and Murtagh could already see many a travelling merchant setting up their stall, having no doubt entered the city when the gates had been opened an hour before daybreak. Already, he could spot prospective buyers loitering about, most of them nobility or of other higher social standing judging by their appearance. Murtagh was rather relieved that the two of them seemed to blend right in, no one sparing them a second glance. He held Eryana's hand securely as they doubled back towards the palace walls, with her whispering in excitement and pointing enthusiastically at anything of interest. Murtagh listened to her with only half an ear._

_Suddenly she stopped making her brother's step falter. It took Murtagh a while to realise what she was staring at. At the side of the road he could see two boy, a blonde and a brown-haired one, sword-fighting. Not with real sword, mind you; they were using what appeared to be more like sticks than wooden swords. Regardless, the blonde haired lad appeared to be quite good, for they had gathered a good crowd of spectators._

_The dark-haired boy fell over unceremoniously, the wooden sword being flung from his hand, clattering to land at Eryana's feet. Bending over, she picked up the wooden sword examining its withered surface with interest. "Can I play?" She asked smiling sweetly._

"_Hey! That's mine! Give it back!" The boy who had fallen over exclaimed, ripping the sword from her hands roughly. "Don't touch other persons' things, thief!" He sneered with narrowed eyes._

"_But I can still play, right?" Eryana repeated, seemingly unfazed by the boy's words. Murtagh took a step forward, ready to intervene._

_It was the dark haired youth that answered, scowling at the girl. "Father says girls can't handle swords. They only good for cleaning and cooking like my mama does." His tone was self-righteous, even a bit condescending. "Go back to your dolls, princess." He mocked, giving Eryana a shove, making her stumble. She tripped, ripping her leggings and knee open. Murtagh saw red._

_Eryana was up in an instant her face furious with traces of tears on her cheeks. "I'm not a princess!" She stated forcefully. _

_To her irritation the boy started laughing. "Whatever you say, my lady." He teased giving a mock bow. She tackled him to the ground in a tumble of limbs. The crowd of surrounding youngsters cheered. In the end, Murtagh had to drag her away kicking and screaming before she got herself black and blue. They never did find the arrow. _

Murtagh scowled lightly at the memory. Tornac must have caught the look on his face as it was shortly after that they stopped by a merchant setting up his stall for the day. Murtagh caught the exchange of a couple of copper pieces before he was presented with a stick of hard caramel. Eryana grabbed hers eagerly, thanking the man. Murtagh had never preferred sweets, but he had to admit that, however childish, the sweet taste of toffee mixed with crunchy almonds seemed to brighten up the mood, if even only a little.

* * *

><p>The weather favoured them that day; the sun had come out from behind the clouds not long after they had set out and there was no harsh wind blowing and biting bitterly at their cheeks. They had made swift time on their journey and they weren't an hour out of the city gates that Murtagh spotted a familiar sight in the near distance. It wasn't until he spotted the stones marking the bounds of the estate that he called out to Tornac. "If we aren't in too much of hurry, would you mind paying a visit?" He nodded his head towards the rooftops just visible behind a grove of trees.<p>

Tornac looked thoughtful for a moment, chewing his lip. "Are you sure? I though you would never want to go back there… after what happened."

Murtagh shrugged plainly, no visible emotion upon his face. "I don't, but she deserves to see her, you know." He stated, motioning at his sister's prone form. Tornac nodded and steered them towards the new destination. Eryana had fallen asleep not long ago, apparently the early wake-up call had taken too much out of her. Her head was leaning comfortably against Murtagh's chest, cloak wrapped warmly around her slumbering form. Murtagh nudged the girl awake gently. "Hey Era, we are going to visit mum, okay?" Eryana only blinked owlishly, rubbing sleep from her eyes, her brother's words completely incomprehensible in her current state.

It was not long before they came upon a set of iron gates set in a wall of limestone. Murtagh gazed at what lay beyond with a haunted expression, memories of the place overwhelming him, most of them unpleasant. He thought he could still hear the screams before he realized it was simply a breeze playing under the tin roofing. _Ghosts, eh? _ They steered left of sight, to his relief, heading towards a small glade hidden in a sparse outcrop of birch trees.

His mother had hated the walls that had kept her prisoner ever since Murtagh was born. Maybe hate was too much of strong word, for Murtagh didn't think his late mother capable of such. She had held no love for the place, however, and often sought solace in the gardens, with her eldest child at her side feeding the ducks that frequented the little pond there. Murtagh cherished those bittersweet memories fondly. It came as a relief that she had been, perhaps out of pity or benevolence, been buried here in the middle of the trees, with her grave adorned by lilies of the valley. At the time, Murtagh had been surprised the King had had nothing to say against the act, only to offer his condolences. It was one of the things Murtagh was most thankful for.

After dismounting and helping Eryana down from Beren, he handed the reins to Tornac to hold; the man wished not to intrude. Eryana was already kneeling by the withered stone slab that marked the grave when he reached her side, no doubt giving a silent prayer as was custom. He muttered his own prayers quickly, thought the words felt hollow; Murtagh had never held much fate in the gods. Tornac had once asked him that if the gods truly punished sin, then why did man still walk this earth.

"Hi mum. Been a long time eh? Hope you're happy up there or where ever you are." He muttered softly, knowing he would get no answer. "Eryana's here too, you know, turned ten just a couple of months past. It's a nice day today, you'd love it. With the sun and the warmth." Murtagh smiled softly. It was comforting, thinking that their mother could hear him, even if he felt somewhat stupid. "We are off to Derwit, you know. Tornac promised me my first sword, since I'm turning sixteen in a couple of weeks. He says they've got the best smithy there. Eryana wants to see the market."

"She looks a lot like you, you know. Smart, witty, sometimes quite annoying and too nosy for her own good. But I love her, even if she gets into trouble every once in a while. Livens up the place a little." Murtagh chuckled, thought there was a hint of his voice cracking. "She loves books like you; always holed up in the library. And archery too, she ain't too bad with the bow. You'd be so proud of her."

Eryana gave her brother a blinding grin, before turning to their mother. "Hello mother… Tag' has told me bit about you, not quite a lot I admit, but still. He can be such an annoying prat at times, stubborn and secretive." Eryana nudged her brother's side playfully earning a half-hearted glare. "But he's still my big brother and my best friend. He even helps me get away from Lade Katherine… sometimes." She fell quiet, not knowing what to say; Eryana had never known her mother, only what little her brother had told her. Sometimes, asking Murtagh about their mother was like pulling out rotten teeth. It was Tornac who had told her more of her mother's gentle nature and yet her fierceness in battle; Eryana aspired to be just like her.

Tornac pulled them both out of their thoughts, wrapping a comforting, warming arm around both of their shoulders. Eryana leaned into him whilst Murtagh stood stoic. The man addressed the grave. "You should be proud, Selena. Your lad has grown up to be a proper, honest man and your daughter is a young and curious, yet clever lass… perhaps a bit too clever, if you ask this old man." He laughed. "Thank you" He told the heavens passionately, "for bringing light back into this old man's life."

They stood there for a while after, all three lost in their own thoughts. Before leaving, Eryana set a wreath of flowers her brother had helped her make on the grave; although the world might seem bleak and cruel at times, they still had each other. She grasped her brother's arms tightly as they set off, yet Murtagh didn't seem to mind.

* * *

><p>They sat around a crackling fire late into the night, the skies above them darkening with star-lights bursting into life in their thousands. Murtagh had gone out hunting earlier, catching a couple of forest hares wondering about. Now a tasty stew was boiling slowly over the flames, being occasionally stirred and seasoning added to it. The scent made both Murtagh and Eryana's mouths water.<p>

Tornac sat by the fire, opposite of the siblings, on a log with his carving knife out and a bit of timber clasped in his hand, expertly chipping away at the grain. A light smile of contentment adorned his eyes and he seemed more relaxed than Murtagh had ever before seen him. It suited him well, he thought, as the man looked about a decade younger than he usually did. He was humming softly, though Murtagh couldn't make out the words however hard he tried. "What is it you are singing?" He inquired after a moment, startling Eryana from where her head lay against his left shoulder; He would no doubt have a kink come morning.

Tornac blinked, not pausing in his carving. "It's a tale about a pair of lovers, both human, though one was mortal while the other was not. Their names I cannot recall, for I don't know all the words some have lost their meaning." He smiled fondly at the flames before continuing. "It's a song my mother used to sing, and her mother before that."

"How come the other was immortal? They were human weren't they?" Murtagh asked in thought.

"The man was indeed immortal, though he hadn't always been. For you see, he had been blessed by a dragon when he was young, though this was apparently well before the order of riders existed." Tornac mused. The man raised a hand, seeing as Murtagh was about to interrupt him. "Before you ask, this happened in a land far to the west, well before humans had ever set foot on Alagaesia."

"Is it a happy story?" Inquired Eryana, the words having piqued her interest as well.

Tornac leaned over to stoke the fire, throwing another log to the flames. He shook his head. "It often is a harsh fate when one is destined to outlive the other by years upon years. This tale is no different, though they both shared many blissful years and were blessed with three children who became great among men." His gaze became wistful. "But time was unforgiving and old age did them part. And it was with great sorrow in his heart that the man took to the winds with his partner of mind and soul and scattered his love's ashes across the continents far and wide. And where the ashes fell, the earth was rich and flourished under care, for it is said the woman held great love for all things grown. The man and his dragon flew on still, their tears falling to the ground like rain drops, watering his loves garden."

Murtagh gazed into the pot, sniffing with an unreadable expression upon his face. "I think the stew is just about done." he said, giving the insides a final stir. Eryana wiped away a stray tear from her cheek before gathering their bowls. They ate in relative silence, before it was broken by Tornac challenging Murtagh to a quick spar by the firelight. Eryana cheered them on well into the morning.

It was many hours after dawn when they set out the next morning, after smothering their fire and burying the remnants of last night's dinner, hoping to sight Derwit well into the afternoon.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: Here I am with the third chapter. Really nearing that 10 000 word mark. Thanks for all the readers and for the review. Don't know when I'll have time to post the next chapter, probably sometime next week, seeing as I have a couple of exams coming up. Enjoy!_

**Chapter 3 – Unexpected Encounters**

Eryana stirred from her slumber, stretching her back as she tried to get some feeling back into her limbs. Her feet felt cold, poking out from under the short blanket. Last night had been spent cramped up on a small cot with her brother's snoring form; Murtagh truly was a noisy sleeper, either snoring loud enough to wake half of the castle or sifting around caught in one of his many nightmares. He never did tell her about those and Eryana had stopped asking quite some time ago. Only Tornac was privy to whatever phantoms her brother encountered in his dreams.

They had been caught on unawares by a storm the previous afternoon and had had to wait out the brunt of it sheltered by a luckily spotted outcrop of rocks. Ravaging storms and rough elements were not all that uncommon on the plains this time of the year. By the time they had reached the small village on the banks of the Ramr, where the river took a shallow turn to the west, it was already early evening. Finding lodgings for the night had been relatively easy as there was only one inn, '_Auntie Anne's' _as the locals called it, thought it had apparently been quite a long time since anyone called Anne had worked there as the innkeeper. Regardless, Tornac had managed to get them settled in a room with two beds, which was why Eryana was currently curled up next to her snoring brother.

"'Tagh?" she whispered quietly, getting no response. Eryana sighted. She sometimes truly wondered why her brother even bothered to sleep with his dagger under the pillow. Honestly, she doubted it would be of any real use with him being such a heavy sleeper.

The floor planks creaked under her weight as she got up. The sun was already up, judging by the strip of light poking through the drawn curtains. After rummaging around for the dress Murtagh had talked her into packing, she scoured the room for a washbasin. She found the wooden bowl, its sides scratched from use, leaning against the wall by the window. Cracking open the door of their quarters she found a bucket of water waiting outside by the door; most likely, it had been carried there late last night. Tornac stirred as she stumbled under the weight of the bucket, though she doubted the man had truly been asleep at all. "Good morning." She said offhandedly.

"That it is, that it is…" The man grumbled groggily. Eryana's suspicions were confirmed when she saw the man already dressed in his tunic and breeches, although the long leather coat he favoured was still hanging by the door from the previous evening. "Someone is up early. Better wake your slumbering pig of a brother, eh?" He remarked conspiratorially, getting up to help her fill up the basin. Eryana smirked as the man wandered over to Murtagh's prone form, lifting up the blanket to expose his feet. Her brother was rather ticklish just above the heel, a fact Eryana had gladly shared with the older man.

The cold water felt refreshing, washing away the last remnants of sleep as well as most of the grime from yesterday's travel.

Half an hour later they were sitting down at the downstairs bar, their stomachs full from the slurry porridge that had been served for breakfast. Tornac sat opposite the siblings in a corner table, sipping his ale merrily; he had ordered milk for both Murtagh and Eryana. "I've got a couple of errands of my own to run this morning." The man said placing his now empty pint on the table with a soft clunk. "I was thinking the two of you could go down to the market; it's a small town and I trust you both to keep yourselves out of trouble." He glanced meaningfully at Murtagh. Eryana gave an eager nod.

Murtagh scowled. "But you said…"

Tornac cut him off with a raised hand. "We will go to the smithy in the afternoon, after lunch." He reasoned, herding off Murtagh's objections. "I want to be able to set off early tomorrow morning." Tornac unstrung his purse, digging out three silver coins. He handed two to Murtagh and one to Eryana. "Here, have a little something for yourselves while you're out."

"I can't take this; you know I have my own savings." Murtagh refused, attempting to hand back the money. Eryana pocketed hers, thanking Tornac with a wide smile. Murtagh glared at his sister.

Tornac threw his hands up in the air, having none of it. "Consider it a part of your nameday gift; a man turns sixteen only once, after all." His tone was final. Murtagh gave a defeated sigh.

Luckily for Murtagh, there were few stalls lining the street selling more than farmers' goods. After all, Derwit was a small town; most of the visitors were merely passing through on their way to the capital. Even though they were practically in the King's backyard, Murtagh could catch a glimpse of the less reputable sort when they passed shadowed alleyways. He tightened his hold on Eryana's hand. Near the end of the street they paused by an apparently popular stall, at least judging by the size of the surrounding crowd. Eryana was already squeezing through the crowd to get a better look at the wares. Murtagh had always hated big crowds and optioned to wait.

With nothing better to do, Murtagh gazed at the trinkets on sale. "Anything catch your eye, young man? Have a dear one waiting at home?" A merchant inquired. Murtagh shook his head slightly, contemplating on walking away. Picking up a leather corded necklace the man presented it for Murtagh to see. "Have a look at this: the pendant is jade from one of the rivers running through the southern Spine." The man claimed. Murtagh decided to humour him.

The pendant was oval shaped, its green surface sanded and polished to the point where it reflected the sunlight. On the front was carved a rune foreign to Murtagh. "What does the rune mean?" He asked.

A gleam appeared in the man's eye, knowing that he had caught his customer's interest. "Now that is a curious little thing. The rune is apparently a rune of protection used by the Grey Folk, or at least that is what the man who made it implied. Although I had another who claimed it was rather an early form of Elvish. Apparently the two alphabets are quite similar."

Murtagh eyed the pendant. It had its appeal, and he knew his sister would love it. It wasn't often that Eryana wore jewellery, but this was something simple. He could hold onto it to give it to her on her next nameday. "What's the price?"

Eryana walked down the street licking her candied apple in contentment. The sugar made her lips sticky and she was aware of the drool dripping down her chin. She didn't care, really; there was no one to complain and it was rare anyone walking by gave her a second glance. She had ditched her brother by some trinket stall. Eryana truly didn't know what had drawn Murtagh's interest; as far as she knew Murtagh had never had a lady friend. Her brother was interested in two things to put it simply: blade work and riding.

Suddenly, she felt herself collide with something soft, letting out a surprised 'umph'. She found herself on the ground, surrounded by the contents of what she assumed was bag of whomever she had collided with. Her own candied apple lay in the mud, soiled and unsalvageable.

Apparently, she hadn't been paying enough attention to where she was going. Eryana scrambled up to apologize, bending back over to help gather contents of the bag scattered across the muddy street. "I'm sorry. It was an accident: I wasn't looking…" A flash of blue caught her eye as she picked up a now stained cloth bundle. Curiosity got the best of her and she lifted the cloth before anyone could stop her. It was a blue stone, bigger in size than anything she had seen before. Yet it felt warm against her fingers, along with a feeling she could not quite recognize: like a small, softly pulsing heart.

The bundle was rather violently ripped from her hands. She looked up to meet the wide, green eyes of the stranger. '_No, a lady' _she thought, catching sight of the long ebony locks from underneath a hooded cloak.

"Era! Are you okay?" Eryana looked up to see her brother finally catching up to them. "Don't go running off like that, you hear!" Murtagh chided after catching his breath. He took one look at her muddied dress. "What happened? Your dress is all ruined."

"I'm sorry, okay? I just fell over when I…" She turned around to find the strange lady gone. Scouring the street, she could spy no trace of her. '_Odd, she was here just a moment ago…'_

Murtagh gave her an odd stare. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up, shall we? I saw a well just up the road. Let's see what we can salvage."

* * *

><p>The walls and the floor were covered in a thick layer of sooth and ash accumulated over a number of years. The heat from the hearth made the air feel smothering and heavy as they entered; already, Murtagh could feel the first droplets of sweat sliding down his forehead. An anvil had been set up in the far back, beside it a workbench topped with tools and other knickknacks. The lighting in the room was sparse, most of it coming the coals burning hotly within the furnace, though Murtagh spied a few narrow slits set high up at the base of the roof, apparently used mainly for ventilation.<p>

A man bent over the bellows looked up as they entered, a grisly smile adorning his callused features as he recognized Murtagh's companion. "Ah Tornac! What brings the most noble master of arms to my humble adobe?" He bellowed in deep baritone voice, rubbing his grimy hands on a wet, stained cloth before drawing Tornac into an embrace by the arm. Murtagh winced unconsciously; a hug like that looked strong enough to fracture bones and his teacher appeared somewhat winded. Tornac did naught but chuckle, giving the man a somewhat strained smile, trying to regain his breath. "Here to pick up your order, no? Got it ready and waiting in the back." the smith said merrily.

Murtagh flinched as the man turned to him, expecting some level of the distain or fear that often accompanied such looks; daddy dearest had certainly left behind quite an impression. Instead, he was surprised with a strong-armed pat on the shoulder. Apparently the man showed no restraint even when meeting complete strangers. "And this must be the young Murtagh. Heard a great deal about you, lad. Tornac here just won't shut up about his star pupil. Says you're almost as good with the blade as old Palancar himself, that true?" Murtagh found himself shrugging, smiling a little yet feeling notably relieved.

"Not so sure about that, but I try my best." Suddenly Murtagh smiled slyly. "Although Tornac might just be getting weary, you know. Old age catching up to him and all." The man gave a booming laugh at his friend's expense.

"Call me Eren, son of Edrick." The now named Eren stated, shoving an arm at his face. Murtagh grasped it; luckily the man's grasp wasn't too crushing. The man's gaze turned fond, suddenly. "You have her eyes, you know. Dark hazel, just like dear Selena. Forged her a pair of daggers some years ago. A fine, clever lass if I ever saw one. Beautiful too. Was sad to hear she had passed on." And Murtagh could somehow tell the man was being naught but genuine. It felt good to be compared to his mother instead of Morzan, even if it was by a complete stranger. Murtagh was sure Tornac caught the brief gratefulness and happiness gracing his eyes.

"He's right." Tornac stated gently as they watched Eren excuse himself and disappear into the adjoining backroom. "You're more like your mother than you realize. You may have most of Morzan's looks," Tornac knew Murtagh didn't appreciate anyone calling Morzan his father, and honestly, the man had done little to deserve the tittle. "But inside, you are your mother's son through and through." He poked at the left side of Murtagh's chest firmly yet gently. "It is what's in here that counts; the compassion, the love, the benevolence and the will to protect. Morzan had nearly none of those things when he died. That's what makes you different."

They were interrupted by a clang and a curse. Eren reappeared bearing a long, cloth-wrapped object.

"Here it is! Finished it just two days ago; took me a while to get it right. Still, one of my best works, I must say. You're very lucky." Eren told them and Murtagh could clearly detect the pride in his voice. He handed wrapped sword to the boy. "Well, go on. Let us see it." He encouraged.

The cotton cloth fell away, revealing the blade underneath, still sheathed. At first glance it looked the size and shape of a typical longsword, perhaps with a blade a little longer. The leather of the sheath felt smooth and waxy as he ran his fingers along it, a reddish brown in colour. A steel chape and a locket of the same material reinforced the tip and the neck of the scabbard. "The scabbard is reinforced with steel. The leather is from an elk, as is the wrapping on the handle, though it also has a wire wrapping underneath to give better grip." All in all it was simple and undecorated in its design; just the way Murtagh liked it. He grasped the handle drawing the out the blade.

"Isn't she a beauty" The smith beamed at his handiwork. Murtagh couldn't help but agree; it was a beautiful blade. The steel shone polished and freshly forged, the edge had been meticulously sharpened. "The blade is Kuastan steel. Would have used dwarven metals but trade isn't really that good nowadays." He explained. "But it's the next best thing: doesn't rust easily, sturdy yet yielding."

Murtagh stepped away to give the sword an experimental swing, as if slashing at an imaginary opponent's shoulder. The balance was perfect, although he though the blade felt lighter than it should have. "It's perfect." The boy praised the smith a genuine smile gracing his features. Tornac held out his hand to examine the blade.

Tornac eyed the blade critically raising it to eye-level. "A lenticular crosscut? Never seen this design from you before. The handle is also longer than you usually see on longswords." He balanced the sword on his wrist. "And the balance is a bit peculiar."

Eren gave a sly smile. "New innovation. Got to keep up with the trends; everyone seems to want something special and new nowadays." He picked up what Murtagh supposed was a half-finished blade nearly identical to his in size and shape, only with one groove instead of two. "See the fullers here?" The man explained running a finger down one of the grooves. "Not just for decoration. Help make the blade just a tiny bit bendier, less likely to break. And lighter too." He gave the blade an experimental swing just for good measure before putting it down.

"Why the longer handle?" Murtagh questioned, curious.

Eren motioned for Tornac to hand over the blade. "This is what is called a hand-and-a-half sword, I believe. Named as such because, when necessary, it can be handled akin to a two-handed sword due to the longer handle." He demonstrated this by grasping the handle with both hands. He addressed Murtagh. "Tornac told me that you had a rather unpredictable fighting style; I decided to go with diversity."

Tornac whistled at the smith's words, truly impressed. "You have really outdone yourself this time, my friend." He handed the blade back to Murtagh digging around his person, taking out a rather heavy bag of coins from his pocket. "Here. A fair payment for such a beautiful blade, as promised." He said as the money exchanged hands. Eren nodded his thanks.

They found themselves walking down the road back towards the inn a good hour later. Eren had asked them to join him for a cup of afternoon tea, although it was mainly a tasty blend of nettle, clover and lavender from what Murtagh could discern. The man apparently shared Tornac's love for the stuff.

"He loved your mother, you know. Eren once told me they first met when they were just children; he was working as an apprentice smith in up north in Therinsford." Tornac spoke up suddenly. Murtagh looked at the man in interest. "Would've married her too, no doubt, had it not been for Morzan. In another time, another life, you could have been his son… Eryana too." Murtagh tried half-heartedly to imagine living in that shabby house, with his mother alive and happy and father who was proud of him… it wasn't half bad. "And sometimes, I like to imagine she loved him too."

.

.

.

_Leagues away, in darkness, a pair of blue eyes opened. _


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 – A Growing Concern**

"Ouch!" Eryana winched as she felt the needle pierce her finger yet again. Red blood stained once pristine fabric, now sweaty and wrinkled in her hands. "Damn!" She cursed quietly, sticking her stinging index finger in her mouth to halt the bleeding. One of the girls sitting beside her glanced up curiously, smirking as she caught sight of her ruined work.

The woman sitting across from her looked up at her sharply. "Mind your tongue, young lady! And take those dirty fingers out of your mouth." Lady Katherine reprimanded sternly. She was of the noble house of Deneder, married into house Torenwood, and certainly looked the part, even with the ever growing number of creases in the forehead and her greying hair.

Eryana scowled slightly yet obliged, if only to escape the condemningly cold stare of those blue eyes. Discreetly, she wiped the still flowing crimson on the hem of her skirt.

How on earth had she ended up in this mess?

It had all started at the harvest festival a couple a month or so ago, a festival even Uru'baen celebrated even though most of the city's livestock and produce came from the surrounding regions. There was the annual carnival and the streets were shimmering with colourful lanterns, the markets filled to the brim with edible goods both savoury and sweet.

And then there had been the music and dancing… and that one boy who had approached her with a bundle of gorgeous flowers, asking her for a dance. The exchange had left Eryana befuddled and stammering.

Honestly, Murtagh had gotten a rather good laugh out of it, although Eryana pretended not to notice the suspicious, if not slightly murderous, looks he kept shooting at the poor lad.

Apparently, Lady Katherine had taken this as a sign to further broaden her teachings in what she called the art of being a young lady of noble standing. Now instead of spending hours sewing dress seams and hemming skirts, something she had just recently gotten decent at, Eryana was stuck making butchered, often self-mutilating, attempts at embroidery. She had been horrified to hear that it was a favourite pass-time of many ladies of the court. Oh, why couldn't her brother wear the dress!

A sharp voice and a stinging rap on her knuckles interrupted her thoughts, bringing her crashing down into the present. "It seems someone is quite satisfied with their work, if they have time for dilly dallying and daydreaming." There was a not quite subtle round of giggles.

Apparently her inattention had not gone unnoticed.

"Well, let us see." Lady Katherine's crisp voice demanded, offering a wrinkly insisting hand. Eryana flushed scarlet as the lady inspected her abominable needle work with keen eyes, a subtle twitch at the corner of her mouth deeming it unsatisfactory to her standards. She huffed as she spotted the blood stains on the fabric. "Whatever am I going to do with you, child?" She muttered in silent prayer before standing up.

"What are you..?"

Before Eryana could further object, Lady Katherine was already by the roaring hearth. With a flick of her wrist the flames were soon devouring the threaded canvas. Eryana watched on in horror as her hours of hard work disappeared in smoke.

The lady Katherine sniffed in distain, snatching a fresh bolt of cloth from a nearby table and shoving it at Eryana. "Do it again. And try not to mess it up this time." She said simply.

Eryana's hands tightened, her knuckles turning as white as the canvas they were holding as fury replaced the previous shock and embarrassment. Biting her lip, she blinked away the tears threatening to spill; crying was childish and she wasn't about to act like a little brat in her present company.

"Yes, Lady Katherine." She bit out dryly.

It was an hour later that they broke up for afternoon tea, a needless frivolousness if you asked Eryana. She managed to slip away into the cool air of early winter. It never snowed this far down south, at least not as far as the records of the archives showed, but the temperature did occasionally drop low enough for water to freeze. Eryana rubbed her hands together for warmth as she walked down to the stables. The whinnying of horses greeted her; luckily no-one else was around at the moment. She paused to scratch Beren behind the ear before she continued on to the piles of hay temporarily stored in the last, currently unused stable. Digging around the back, she located her winter cloak along with her bow and arrows where she had stashed them earlier that morning.

The cloak brought comforting warmth as she fastened it around her shoulders. The weather was fair and there was little wind: a perfect day for some archery practice. It was unlikely anyone else was down at the range; morning practice had ended a good two hours ago.

She narrowed her eyes in concentration, drawing back the string to her cheek. Her arm trembled slightly from the exertion as she took aim. Forcing her shoulders to relax with every breath she suddenly let go. With a sharp thump the arrow landed some distance off the middle of the target. Unsatisfied Eryana notched a second arrow to the string. Her earlier fury was slowly diminishing as the minutes trickled by.

Dark bags were clearly visible underneath her yes; sleep had been hard to come by the last few weeks. It was many a night she found herself being ruffled awake by an unsettling dream, lying awake till the early hours of the morning. It was costing her: just yesterday she had shouted at Murtagh during dinner for some simple misunderstanding she couldn't quite recall. It might have had something to do with apples…

Notching the next arrow into the string, she blew a stray hair out of her eyes for better aim. A deep inhale and a slow exhale before she raised the bow, on the next inhale drawing back the string, feeling her diaphragm as she breathed. Releasing half of her next breath she anchored the string against her right cheek.

_The dreams always started out the same. There was darkness, unlifting darkness that felt heavy and constricting, like being trapped in a small room with no doors or windows. Then there was a feeling of anxiety, like waiting for something long expected to happen; Eryana failed to exactly pin what it was. Sometimes there were voices she didn't recognize, nor did she see the speakers. Yet some of them felt almost familiar, like she should know them. It was all too confusing. _

It wasn't only her who had been high strung as of late; her brother hadn't had it easy either. Ever since his sixteenth nameday the King had insisted her brother attend court with him, sitting and listening in on council meetings and the like; he would, after all, inherit their father's estates after he came of age in a few years' time. Eryana had never considered her brother skilled in the ways of manipulation and polite yet empty words. Murtagh wasn't and never would be a politician and would always choose the blade over quill and ink. Her brother enjoyed simple, honest things and the constant frustration stemming from weekly belittling and other underhanded comments was quickly wearing his nerves thin.

Just last week, Eryana had witnessed her brother taking out his stress on a couple of young squires on the sparring grounds; it hadn't been pretty. Luckily Tornac had stepped in before any serious injury could occur. He had been less than happy to hear about Galbatorix's growing interest in his young charge. _'Be careful about what you say and to whom you give your word.' _He had warned them both, mostly addressing Murtagh. _'To many, allegiance and honour are values only measured in coin.'_

She released the arrow.

There was a sudden flare of blue flames.

Eryana almost dropped her bow in surprise, stumbling back and ungraciously losing her balance. _What was that?! _She stared at the target with wide eyes. A rather wide, clearly distinguishable burn on the still smoking canvas was clearly visible around where her arrow had struck. Distressed, she stumbled over to examine it in more detail. She had to brush her fingers across the charred surface to ascertain she wasn't seeing things.

The burn was about five inches in diameter. The arrow itself had splintered violently, only the tip remained intact embedded in the reinforced target. Eryana stared at her soot covered fingers in shock.

"What happened to your hand?" She nearly jumped five feet into the air hearing Tornac's sudden voice.

Startled she looked down to see what he was talking about. Only then did she realize the stinging, slowly intensifying pain in her left hand. The flesh of her fingers was an angry red and was swelling rather quickly; already some of the skin was starting to peel off. She hissed in pain cradling her injured hand to her chest, hesitating as Tornac bent down to take a better look.

His rough hands felt surprisingly gentle as he examined the burnt skin. "This is quite a burn you have here. How on earth did this happen?" He inquired worriedly.

Eryana opened her mouth but something made her hesitate. Should she tell him the truth? It was unlikely anyone would take her seriously; flames didn't just appear out of thin air after all. But she didn't like lying to him either. Wringing the fabric of her dress nervously in between her unburnt fingers, she decided upon a half-truth. "I don't know." And she really didn't.

Tornac frowned; Eryana knew she was a horrible liar. "Regardless, it needs to be checked out and treated." His tone was serious, leaving no room for objections. "Let's get you to the physician. He might know something other than cool water to treat this. Burns on the hands are nasty things; slow to heal and quick to fester."

Eryana panicked. "Not master Gudwinn, please Tornac! He will tell Murtagh and you know my brother would make a fuss." She pleaded before mumbling in embarrassment. "I don't want him to worry… I'm not a little child who needs codling and hand-holding."

Tornac sighted. To be honest, he knew Murtagh was already stressed out as it was. "Very well then... I might just have some salve to do the job. But if it festers, I'm dragging you to Gudwinn whether kicking or screaming." He relented.

"You'll not tell Murtagh?" She asked hopefully.

"Not a word."

Tornac uncapped the water skin hanging at his side. "Pour this over the burn to keep it cool and to bring down the swelling." As she was steered away from the court yard by the shoulders, Eryana failed to notice the rather curious, yet worried glance Tornac shot at the charred target.

The swordsmaster still had a modest sized, three room home in the upper level of the city, quite close to the gates leading onwards to the middle districts. It was not as grand as some of the surrounding adobes, but it had a homely feel with its greying white brickwork and a green-painted door and window frames. Even though Tornac had live alone for many years and spent most of his time up at the castle, he still kept the place tidy like his late wife had used to. Eryana fondly remembered the smell of freshly baked bread and cinnamon rolls that used to saturate the air; now there was only the barest hint of lavender and mint as they entered.

Tornac sat her down by the kitchen table while he rummaged around one of the many cabinets and shelves lining the walls. The kitchen had a warm atmosphere; the furniture showed signs of frequent use over the years, there were lace drapes on the windows, and a collection of potted herbs sat on a windowsill with bundles hung to dry above the currently unlit hearth. On one of the walls hung portraits of Tornac and his late wife, Marianne. The woman in the portrait was fair, with blond hair and warm grey eyes, the dimples by her cheeks a testament to a happy marriage.

"Ah! Here we are. I think it's still good." Tornac came to her side with a glass jar in his hands. Uncorking it, he gave the contents a sniff. "Yep, still good. This should do the trick." Working in consort they cleaned the burn with water after which Tornac dapped it dry gently with a clean cloth, careful not to irritate the damaged tissue or burst the already formed boils. From the jar, he spread a thick layer of a creamy, greyish yellow paste onto the burn.

"What's in it?" Eryana inquired out of curiosity.

"Mostly primrose and tarweed mixed in with pig fat." The man replied. Tornac pulled out a length of soft white gauze to dress the hand.

Eryana picked up the now abandoned jar, sniffing it like Tornac had done earlier. Her nose picked up a familiar smell. "And chamomile." She stated, although there was a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

"And some chamomile oil." Tornac confirmed giving her a proud smile. "My, someone has been studying their herbs lately." He finished treating the hand, tucking the free end of the length of gauze firmly within the folds of the binding. "There all done and better."

"Gudwinn taught me about herbs when I asked him the last time I was there. When I strained my right shoulder, you remember?" Tornac nodded, recalling the incident quite clearly; it had been when Eryana had insisted him and Murtagh teach her to spar with swords. The young girl had overexerted herself with wanting to try out her brother's blade instead of the wooden one she had been assigned. It hadn't ended well.

"Well, he told me about some of the common ones used for pain reliving and fever, also showed me how to prepare a poultice for this stable boy who cut his hand." The girl explained eagerly. Suddenly she looked somewhat uncomfortable and squeamish. "Promise you won't tell anyone, but I want to be a physician when I grow up. I have been reading up on things and spying on master Gudwynn whenever I get the chance. Most of the time he is more than happy to answer my questions." She divulged staring intently at her feet.

Tornac gave her a weak smile. It was a praiseworthy dream, he had to give her that. There was a clear difference between being a simple healer and being a qualified physician. And not all of it stemmed from difference in social stature alone. Physicians were well-learned and respected professionals, often aligned with a court or a noble house. The practice took years of dedicated study and involved more than just wound or sickness treatment. The only problem was that no women were generally accepted in the field and the few that were generally ended up working as simple healers or assistants.

Never to discourage, Tornac went ahead to reassure the young girl. "It is an admirable dream."

"You really think so?"

"Absolutely! My dear Eryana is going to become the best physician in the whole of Alagaesia and then take good care of this old man." Tornac praised humorously, all the while smiling widely.

Eryana returned the smile.

Authors note:

Thanks for the many reviews; they really motivate me to keep on writing, especially when faced with a block, and feedback and constructive criticism is always appreciated. Sorry for the rather long break in updates, but i have been busy studying and trying to find myself a summer job. Actually succeeded in the latter.

**SPOILERS**Anyways, people have been asking me about pairings and to be honest I have put some thought into the idea and decided to stick quite close(at least sowhat) to the canon. And do there will not be EraArya in this fic... somewhat disturbing. But Murtagh might end up with someone...**SPOILERS END**

So the board has been set and the pieces are moving... or so they say. Actions have consequences, as you're about to see.

Enjoy!


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